Tombstone Blues
by semtester
Summary: All things must end, but they really don't for those left behind. Their story continues... (Chap 3 Added) (Rating may change for subsequent chapters)
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer:** All characters appearing in _Cowboy Bebop_ are the copyright of Sunrise, Inc. No infringement of these copyrights is intended, and the following story is not authorized by the copyright holder. In other words, I don't own CB. I'm just a fan and a broke one at that. Come to think of it, I don't own Bob Dylan's _Tombstone Blues_ either but it is used without permission. I'm a fan of his too so if Sunrise/Bandai or Bob Dylan happen across this fic, please consider it free publicity. 

* * *

Tombstone Blues  
1. Elevator Music

* * *

Mama's in the factory, she ain't got no shoes  
Daddy's in the alley, he's lookin for food  
I'm in the kitchen with the tombstone blues

_"Tombstone Blues"_  
Bob Dylan from _Highway 61 Revisited_

* * *

A month had gone by since that spectacular night. Well...spectacular was the wrong word to use, but other words seemed inadequate for hyperbole to allow. A building's top floor blowing wide open is guaranteed to garner attention. People in the know had already been buzzing about the coup d'etat within the Red Dragon Syndicate and then hot on its heels was the immolation of its newly crowned head. It made for great wondering. 

Ordinary folk didn't care about syndicate members dying at each other's hands. Hard to get upset over the death of people who killed for a living. Everyone was guaranteed death and anyone who got involved with one of the syndicates knew that they could meet the devil at any time. It was part of the deal. 

One man would say, "Live by the sword, die by the sword." 

A woman would nod and rephrase, "Live by the gun, die by the gun." 

Infamous moments had a way of bringing out the cliché in all and that night had given way to a torrential release of old catchphrases. 

But if the real folk were macabre in their mundane philosophies about the carnage of numerous young men who had accepted such a possibility, the same could not be said of how they felt about the property damage. The ordinary Jane and Joe were loudly pissed that the police had done little to limit the damage of a valuable downtown building. At the very least, they could've limited the damage in downtown Tharsis City. 

As a result of the blowout, there were four major businesses who were in the building who now had to find new office space. Who was going to find such spacious offices at the price break they'd been given? It was bad enough that Terraforming Inc. had moved much of its operations to Titan now that the war was over and the survivors were eager to work, cheaply too, but they had kept their home offices in Tharsis. Now it looked like even that was going to move now. The other three business had not announced whether to keep their offices in the city and their silence was being taken as a sign that relocation was imminent. 

"Too much instability," one official remarked on the condition that he not be named. 

The comment did little to assuage the suspicion of a long held belief by the populace that their civic leaders were intertwined in Syndicate operations. Didn't matter which order it was, Red Dragon or White Tiger or Golden Lion or some other animal and color combination. The result remained the same. If a Syndicate was troubled, then the city could expect trouble. 

This lack of naivete led to disinterest at the need for investigation. It was a damned inconvenience that two blocks of downtown had been cordoned off for a week on the pretense of investigation. Everyone knew that it was just to clean up the evidence and if they knew that and the police knew that, why did the area need to be blocked? 

"Jeez," one vendor had grumbled, off the record, of course, "the White Tigers never caused this much trouble. When they kill and maim and blow things up, they're polite about it and keep it to themselves. They respect the rest of us." 

It seemed that the Red Dragon Syndicate had not only lost their old leaders, their new leader, and valuable office space, they'd also lost the popularity contest as well. 

A month later, the Tharsis City Police Department was still mired in bad publicity over the matter. Leaders were doing double-shifts in the press to upgrade their image and dispel the speculations that they had let the showdown happen as a purge and also to head off a larger conflict that was rumored between the Dragons and the Tigers. 

"Negating the negatives," was how one informant put it in the _Tharsis City Times_. It made a good quote and as people began to return to their daily lives, they bought the line...if, in fact, they had read the news page of the newspaper. 

Somewhere in the space above Mars, a man with a gleaming arm and a glowering countenance sat reading the news from a four-year old monitor that needed replacing. As he made his way down the article, Jet Black snorted as he grew more disgusted. According to the final report issued by the Tharsis City Police and backed by the Council of Tharsis City, the incident at the Red Dragon Building was entirely caused by rival factions within the Red Dragon Syndicate. It had happened suddenly and the prime suspects involved had perished at the site. The department claimed that they had been unaware of a growing enmity between the factions nor had they known of the great threat. The source of the fierce rancor was still uncertain, but that it appeared to have ended with the actions of that combatants. 

"Bubble bullshit," Jet muttered, annoyed. He grabbed his pack of cigarettes from his jumpsuit. In dismay, he noted that he was down to one stick. He swore as he placed it between his lips and lit up. After a long inhale, he squinted at the screen again. 

It was apparent from the loopy jargon that the police were content to let the dead take the blame. That should have offended Jet, but it didn't. What sickened him was that the blame was assigned correctly. "Only a maverick insider could have pulled it off," the informant was quoted in a side article. "The Tigers wouldn't have pulled anything this showy and no one else could've cared that much. Gotta be one of their own. Maybe a former member." 

"You got that right," Jet mumbled as he gazed at the words long enough to make them bleed and blur. 

"Stop reading that stuff," a woman advised him, her voice dispassionate, uncaring. Leaning against the rail behind the monitor, Faye Valentine was filing a nail. Jet wondered how long she could file the same nail, but he didn't ask. He just wondered. She didn't look at him as she added, "The news is full of shit, Jet. They don't tell the truth. They only tell their version of the truth." 

"Don't we all?" It wasn't a challenge. Only an observation. 

The scrape of the emory board stilled. Those green eyes moved from the nail to the floor in front of her. There was an opening for her to say something. Seconds passed and so did the opportunity. In its place, she opted for silence and walked to her room. 

In absent irritation, Jet sighed. Life on the _Bebop_ was all about silence these days. He and Faye talked when they happened to run into each other. But it was never for long, even if they were in the same room. 

Sometimes, when it was just him and his trees, he acknowledged that it was possible that he missed Ed more than Spike. Then he would feel guilty. Then guilty again for feeling guilty since it was almost true and almost false. The quietude choked him like a hag of a censor. He knew that if Ed were around, there would be some kind of noise. At times, unintelligible, but any kind of resonance, discordant or joyful, would have be better than this kind of elevator music they were stuck in. There was nothing inoffensive, but nothing inspiring either. 

He leaned back against the couch cushions and let his heavy eyes close. He was about to drift into an aimless sleep that was all too frequent when he heard a crackle from the monitor on the coffee table. "Hey, Jet, are you there?" 

There was a nudge by a knee near his rib. It was obvious that he was trying to ignore the caller but the nudging was insistent. "Jet, someone is calling you." 

Faye had re-entered the living area dressed as if she were on her way to the bathroom, except the bathroom was in the opposite direction. The terry cloth robe was even more ill-fitting for her petite body now that she had lost weight and her rich hair was wrapped carelessly in her turbin. She could dress like sin when she wanted to. He could testify to that, but she would have said that there was nothing remotely sexy about her get up now. It was pedestrian wear, she'd say, but to Jet, still floating in his half-sleep, he found her most beautiful in these ordinary clothes, especially when her features were scrubbed clean of the makeup she insisted on wearing and strands of her purple black hair wisped around her fairy-like features. 

Realizing the direction of his thoughts, he snapped awake. The change gave him a sudden headache and he shot her a dark scowl. "Can't you let a man sleep in peace?" 

"Don't get pissy at me," she returned sharply. "You never sleep in peace these days anyway." 

"How can I with you around?" 

"I haven't done anything!" she defended, the blandness in her eyes dissipating. 

"Yeah, I know!" Jet was standing now and both of them were beginning to breathe deep. The exertion hurt due to the unused effort, but they made the effort anyway. They were angry at each other because it suddenly felt better than being numb. 

"Hey, Jet," the man in the monitor called out. "Are you there? I can hear you." 

Flicking a switch, Jet barked, "Yeah, McMurphy, I'm here." 

Jack Daniels McMurphy, named by a father who knew alcohol better than the women he slept with, snorted. "Dog, we got your man." 

Slowing his breath, Jet turned to give the man in the monitor his full attention. "What man?" 

"Your bounty partner." 

Jet turned a hard gaze to Faye. "I don't have a partner." 

McMurphy took off his Tharsis City Police cap to show salt 'n pepper hair. It was a reminder to Jet that they were all getting older and that some people got older while others didn't and never would. "C'mon," McMurphy wheedled, a bit impatient. "We got that former syndicate guy who was your partner." 

"McMurphy, I got no partner. He's dead." 

"Yeah, I know. His body is still here at the morgue. Got no next of kin so its just sitting at the Medical Examiner's collection of various parts." 

There was a time when Jet would have chuckled at the dry, sardonic tone of McMurphy, but he didn't. He knew the owner of the body and there was an unexpected ache that burst in the middle of his chest now that it was forced to acknowledge that there was proof of the owner's demise. 

Until that moment, he hadn't realized that he had still held out hope. By the time he and Faye had gotten off their melancholy asses to try and stop the guy, it had been too late. Like everyone else, they'd seen the ruins and lights and smoke, but nothing else. No one, not even a man with ISSP connections, was allowed in and so they never saw him. But what one doesn't see, one doesn't have to believe. The mind made those kinds of deals with delusion. 

Next to him, he felt the air around Faye grow cold, her delicate features drawn and closed. "Why are you telling me this?" Jet asked McMurphy, his voice suddenly hoarse. 

McMurphy sighed. "If there is no next of kin, his body is gonna be donated to science. A worthy cause, sure, but in this case, ya never know. Guy's become an urban legend and we both know what happens to legends." 

"They become objects," Faye interjected, soft and faint. 

McMurphy heard her. Jet could see that because his ruddy features turned a darker red. "Yeah, objects of fascination. Donating to science could end up donating to the highest bidder. There's some people who wouldn't mind having the body displayed with that other one. We already got a guy who owns some kind of weird museum where he shows his collection of famous body parts. He wants to buy both bodies so he can have them as some kind of guardians of the gate." 

"That's sick." 

"That's entrepreneurship," Jack corrected and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. "Anyway, me and Monty wanted to let you know...in case you wanted the body." 

Jet looked to Faye, who gritted her teeth and nodded. "We do," he stated. 

The old colleague gave him a rueful expression. "Me and Monty and some of the others will hold the body as long as we can, but I gotta warn you, Jet. You're gonna have to pay someone to get the body out." 

"I gotta bribe it out?" Jet was appalled but Faye merely smirked in unsurprise. 

"A buck's a buck," she riposted sarcastically. 

"I'll get the price down," McMurphy promised, looking ill himself at having to impart the information. "I'm sorry, but like I said, they release the body to next of kin. After that, it's anyone's game." 

"How much is it gonna be?" Jet asked, agitated. "Without a price break." 

"You ain't gonna like it?" 

"Just name the price," Jet urged wearily. 

"750,000 woolongs." 

"Is that all?" Faye appeared shocked and insulted. 

Jet didn't know whether to laugh or groan. "You got 750,000 woolongs, Faye?" he challenged, a thick brow lifting. The money stash had trickled to somewhere under 100,000 woolongs since there had been no bounties attempted since that night. 

She folded her arms across the terry cloth. "No. Do you?" 

Jet growled. "No, I don't, but it seems we gotta get it." He turned to McMurphy. "How long do you think you can hold the body?" 

"A week." 

"That's it? Just a week?" 

"I'm surprised they held the body this long," McMurphy explained, the apology inherent in his words. 

"Yeah, yeah," Jet agreed in resignation. "Hold it as long as you can. We'll get the money." 

"Sure thing, Jet." 

"Tell the guys thanks." 

"Will do." 

Long after the communication was cut, Jet and Faye sat in the living area, one on one couch and the other across, both staring at a blank screen. "So...what are we gonna do?" Faye finally asked. 

Jet leaned forward and turned on the monitor again, powering up the computer. "We need to get a bounty." 

With their historical luck, Faye was not able to hide her lack of confidence. "Oh, great. Can't we just lie, cheat or steal from someone? That would be so much more efficient." 

One spurt of laughter, rare these days, erupted from his thick throat. "Probably, but it ain't our style." 

"I didn't know that _we_ had a style." 

There was a heavy inference loaded in her statement. Faye was good at doing that. She could seem a flaky, beautiful tart with big tits and luscious limbs, but then she'd wallop a man with one blade of a caustic observation, making him pay for his inattention. Flawed, she was. Impetuous, and impulsive as well, but she was no fool. Not really and when she was, it was only because she gave herself permission to be. 

Jet flicked a sideways glance over to her and then turned back to the monitor. He could feel that emerald gaze fixed on the crescent plate on his right cheekbone, waiting for his response. 

"_We_ don't," he conceded, his tone even. "But I guess we need to find one soon." 

"For Spike?" The question was droll and she looked unconvinced before he even answered her. He knew that she was sure that Spike wouldn't care left or right if they had a style. He was gone and they weren't. The least they could do is let go of him right. 

"Yeah, for Spike." He was silent for a moment and then gave her something more. A piece of honesty. "For me too." 

She offered nothing more than a nod and got up from the couch to resume her way to the shower. He didn't watch her leave; instead, he grabbed a remote and pressed a series of buttons. Into the area, music flowed. It wasn't Parker or Coltrane or Davis that he had chosen, but a jazz group that had come after jazz's heydey, when musicians started to play the music to keep it alive out of pure love, because there sure wasn't any money in it. 

The sound of Stanton Moore and his group brimmed with life as the sound of "Tang the Hump" reverberated in the darkened area. The music was quirky, lively, funky, spontaneous. It reminded him of that other time not so long ago. It sounded different now, but he figured that there was no escaping that and affirmed that there was nothing he could do about it. He could only do what an average man was a capable of and bumble his way until he got it. 

Jet felt a part of himself thaw as he searched through the files of prospective bounties. Not everything was coming back and he didn't want it. He wasn't ready for all of it, but he was ready for a small portion. A portion that could hear noise again. 

Better yet, a part of him that could _feel_ noise again. Real noise that jangled against his nerves, vibrated his muscles and tickled his brain. 

To one average man, that would have to do for now. 

* * *

_A Possible Next: Reincarnation of the Horse_

* * *

**Author's Note:** This fic is based on the end of the series and it doesn't change what happened. I didn't like the end, but my dislike of it only solidifies my admiration because the end is what gave the series its potency. There were no apologies, no sudden changes of heart, no odd behavior switches. It began, it lived, it ended. And yet, it didn't because Faye and Jet remained. This is one of their possible stories. 


	2. Reincarnation of the Horse

**Disclaimer:** Same as Chapter 1. 

* * *

Tombstone Blues  
2. Reincarnation of the Horse

* * *

The sweet pretty things are in bed now of course  
The city fathers, they're trying to endorse  
The reincarnation of Paul Revere's horse  
But the town has no need to be nervous

Verse 1 of _"Tombstone Blues"_  
Bob Dylan from _Highway 61 Revisited_

* * *

"No, not this one, too far...not this one either, too small...not this one either, too big...DAMN!" 

Each minute seemed like an hour given their time constraints and each bounty prospect that was deemed unproductive was adding to the frustration migraine that was building up inside of Jet's head. 

Across from him, Faye was leaning forward, her gamine features tightening as she perused the latest possibility: John "Yellow Fever" Dengues. "No, not him either," she intoned, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "It says he specializes in fanatical bioterrorism to save the centipedes of southern Callisto." She groaned audibly. "I really don't want to revisit the Save-the-Environment scene again. The creepy lady with her monkey virus was enough." 

He couldn't disagree with her, although the 3.5 million woolong reward was more than tempting. "Okay, okay," he agreed gruffly. "But we have to find something." 

They'd been searching for hours; so much so that Faye complained that her eyeballs were dry. "I feel like the moisture has been sucked from my eyes from staring at this screen," she whined. "There's gotta be something in here!" 

Two hours later, she was still searching, but she'd burned out on the complaining. "I'll call Bob," he suggested, trying not to feel dejected. "Maybe he'll know something that hasn't been posted yet." 

He left her to make the call from the bridge, but Bob, a long-time friend from Jet's ISSP days, was regretfully short on information. "I swear, Jet, I wish I had something to give you, but everything I know of is on public file and it seems like the number of wannabe bounty hunters has increased. Sometimes it seems like there are more freshie bounty hunters than criminals. These damned dabblers are causing more problems than help." 

Jet chuckled but it was listless. "Well, they sure are making it hard for the rest of oldtimers." 

"Old-timer? Damn, but you only been in it for about 3 or 4 years," Bob pointed out. 

"Yeah, but it seems longer." 

Bob's grin subsided to an abashed smirk. "Tell me about it. I thought the older you get, the faster time was supposed to go." 

Jet shrugged his fatigued shoulders and leaned back in the captain's seat. "Doesn't seem like time moves at all sometimes and when it does, it just keeps looping." There was no immediate reply and Jet drifted away slightly on the stray musing. 

Carefully, Bob inquired, "You okay, Jet? You seem a bit...down." 

The concern in the man's voice was genuine and it snapped Jet out of his momentary reverie. He jerked upright. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Just need to get back to work, ya know?" The reply was too rushed and hurried to be completely believed, but Jet hoped that Bob would be a friend and take him at his word. 

The well-worn features of the old colleague squinted skeptically, but he didn't question further. Instead, he returned to the main point of the call. "I wish I had somethin' for you, Dog. It is either a big fish that most hunters don't want to touch and for good reason or mid-to-small fish that all the others think is easy money." 

Jet released a resigned breath. It was all too true and therein lay the problem. If a bounty was on file, then every other hunter knew about the bounty too and they were not in a position to be competing with others. They needed something that no one else knew about. "I understand," Jet said. "Just let me know if anything comes up." 

"Sure thing." 

A feeling of unwanted lassitude made his bones ache dully as he returned to the lounge area. He found Faye flopped on her back with an arm flung over her eyes, moaning, "Uuuuggggghhhhh..." 

"Damn, Faye, but we need a break." 

"Don't say that, Jet," she warned, half-pleading. "We get lots of breaks, but they're usually physically related, not fortune related." 

"Then start praying for our luck to change." 

She lifted her arm and slanted a dubious glance at him. "Are you sure you want me to do that? Faye Valentine and praying hasn't been known to be an effective noun and verb combo." 

_Great_, he considered irritatedly. _Now she decides to be humble!_ He ground his teeth together and directed, "Just keep lookin' then and I'll do the prayin'!" 

"When was the last time you prayed?" she asked as she sat up. The tone was grouchy, testy. 

Jet didn't answer; he pretended that he did not hear the question as he switched to a new file to review and then to another and then another. 

If she wanted to say something, she must have thought better of it, because she made no other comment for the next half-hour and when she did, it wasn't what he expected. 

"I'm sorry, Jet." He shot her a sharp, questioning look that she met with an even gaze of her own. "Why don't you go get something to eat?" she suggested, her tone ambiguous. "You've been at this longer than me." 

He had a feeling she was referring to more than their current search. It was a subtle inflection in her remark and a flicker of compassion that she tried to hide. He noted that she didn't sound particularly solicitous, but this comment, simple and oblique though it was, revealed a side of Faye that he wasn't used to seeing. He wasn't certain if the minor change was due to the events of that night or her memory coming back. 

His lack of response at her suggestion caused a satiric smile to curve those delicate, rosebud lips. "Don't looked so shocked, Jet. Contrary to popular belief, I do have a heart...and a conscience." 

Wincing at being caught, he grumbled, "Then why don't you use them more often?" 

An authentic laugh trickled from her. "Because my heart can be unreliable and my conscience can be irregular," she answered airily. "You know that. So I prefer to go with my _pain-in-the-ass_ qualities. They're more consistent." 

"I guess you get chips for being honest," he said with his habitual scowl. 

"Then let me cash them in. Go get something to eat and then rest, Jet, and I'll get you if I see anything." 

It was that residual habit of skepticism when dealing with her that caused him to lift a brushy brow. "You sure?" 

"JET!" She sounded mildly offended at his doubt of her sincerity. 

"Sorry, its just..." Her eyes narrowed, forewarning him that he may want to give pause to what he was about to say. He took her up on the silent admonition and let the matter drop. "All right, I'll take a short rest." He turned to leave but then he stopped. "Faye..." 

"Yeah?" she asked, faintly exasperated. What he wanted to say got stuck somewhere in the middle of his throat as if it had gotten entangled in a ball of mucus or something. Some things were hard for him to say when he was around her and this was no exception so he hesitated. Growing perturbed, she snapped, "C'mon, Jet, just spit it out." 

"Thanks." With his reluctant goal met, he moved quickly from the room, not giving her a chance to respond. 

* * *

He'd fallen asleep upright with the pruning shear in his prosthetic hand. He hadn't even realized he had fallen asleep until he felt a small hand on his shoulder, squeezing and pushing. "Wake up," the voice was telling him. It was a low voice, strong in its own way, but distinctly feminine. "C'mon, Jet. Wake up. Doohan's on the line. He says he may have a bounty for us." 

"Bounty?" he started groggily, his eyes feeling heavy as he struggled to wake. "Doohan? How would he--?" 

Abruptly, she cut him off. "I don't care and I didn't ask. All I know is that he's on the line and he wants to talk to you." 

As fine and delicate as her bone structure appeared, it hid a deceptive strength. When it seemed to her that he was taking too long to move, she stood directly in front of him, put her arms under his armpits, locked her hands around her wrists and pulled him forward and up to his feet. He gave a startled gasp and protested immediately. She apologized with a distinct lack of sincerity. "Sorry, old man. Don't mean to crowd your space but you'll never forgive yourself if you don't talk to him and I don't want to hear your grumbling." 

He dropped the shears from his hand convulsively and instinctively pushed at her to let go. Not because he wanted her away from him, but because he was afraid that he wanted her closer. He could smell the jasmine fragrance of the shampoo she used for her glossy hair, he could feel the warmth of her breath on his neck, but most of all, he felt those bountiful mounds of feminity that decorated her chest pressing very intimately into the area between his abdomen and just underneath where his pectorals began. It was, he figured in abashed astonishment, a perfect fit. Too damned perfect to be real. 

"Let go of me, Faye!" he snapped, hoping that he sounded gruff, instead of breathless. "I'm awake! I'm awake!" 

She let go easily and raised a perfectly plucked brow. "It's about damned time. You were snoring loud enough that Doohan heard you. Now come on! He won't talk to me. Too much estrogen on display for him to respect me properly." She sounded miffed as she quipped, "Chauvinist!" It was the same tone she used to call men _idiots_. Jet deduced it was in his best interest to agree with her by not saying anything. 

In seconds, he found himself on the familiar vinyl chair. Faye had gone to the kitchen to get something drink and he was glad of it. He needed a couple of seconds to recover himself. Rubbing his real hand roughly over his hawkish features, he turned to the man in the monitor. Doohan looked nearly identical to the last time he'd seen him. The same beat-up blue coveralls, same streaks of grease on his chin and cheekbones, and that iron-gray hair that looked like it found a brush and comb to be its fatal foes. "Doohan, you make me jealous," Jet said by way of greeting. 

"Why?" The question was blunt and unsentimental. 

"You got all that hair and you don't even take care of it." 

Doohan snorted. "I don't need this hair. Gets in the way. Maybe I'll just shave it off." 

"Spoken like a man who still has hair," he accused, chuckling lightly and then grew pensive. "Faye said you have something for me." 

If possible, the long face grew more taciturn. "Yeah, I heard you needed a quick bounty. One that is not on the police postings. You interested?" His raspy voice crackled over the transmission, the grooves in his tanned face seeming deeper than the last time they had seen him. 

Jet wasn't sure how Doohan had known, but didn't bother to find out the details. Maybe Faye was right. Now was not the time to ask or care. He'd probably learned how most people in their world learned everything: Gossip. It spread faster than news anyway. Sometimes it was more accurate. 

"We do," Jet admitted wearily. "Something close by, where we can get in, get the bounty, get our money and get out." 

"Then maybe I have something for you. My younger brother, Mahoney, is a blasphemer." 

"A blasphemer?" Jet asked, perplexed. "He's part of a cult?" 

Doohan grimaced. "Sort of. Likes horses." 

Jet's dark eyes widened at the inference and he held both palms out as if to ward off an offering of spoiled milk. "Uhm...Doohan...uh...I'm not so sure that...I...want..." he sputtered and stuttered. "I mean..." 

"Yeah," Doohan agreed on a scowl. "Can't understand how he could abandon the love of machines for horses. What kind of kin can he be?" 

Jet was confused. "He likes horses instead of machines? Uh...I don't understand." 

"Horse racing!" Doohan spat out impatiently; his disgust evident. "Horse racing instead of real racing!" 

"What's wrong with horse racing?" Faye interceded as she emerged from the shadows to sit in the couch, a glass of soda in one hand, a cigarette in another. 

The older man looked at her as if she were not to be trusted since she'd asked such a redundant question. "It has horses in it. That's what is wrong with it." 

"Oh," she said slowly, deceptively innocent. "Of course. Horse racing has horses." 

"Faye..." Jet began warningly, but Doohan was ignoring her, probably because he could detect that she too liked horse racing, which made her a blasphemer as well. He didn't ask for a reason for this transgression and she didn't offer one. If he learned that her love of horses had more to do with her gambling-loving heart, than for any aesthetic reason, then he would have added justification for ignoring her. 

For his part, Jet's anxiety eased in the realization that he had misunderstood Doohan. For a moment, he had thought that Doohan was sending them on a hunt that involved a cult of perverted horse worship. Shuddering at an unwanted visual that crept into his brain, he turned his attention back to Doohan. "What does your brother, horse racing and a bounty have to do with each other?" He hoped the answer fell within the boundaries of relative normality. 

"Mahoney's a former exercise rider." The information was imparted with a degree of derision. "Now he's a professional handicapper, signed, sealed and dubiously licensed. Sort of like bounty hunters." At that comment, Faye and Jet raised identical brows, but let Doohan continue, afraid to interrupt him. 

Through Spike, Jet had gotten to know the iconically laconic Doohan, but Faye was barely acquainted, having only met him once. But even she was aware that the man was not normally this wordy. He was the type where two sentences without a pause in between would constitute an entire conversation for the day, maybe even two. Perhaps this unusual garrulousness was for a reason, but neither of them questioned it. They were content to let Doohan speak. 

"Mahoney said that there is a former jockey whose been sabotaging races. Big races. It is causing a real problem for the syndicates." 

"Syndicates?" At the mention of _syndicate_, Jet was immediately wary. He'd had just about all he wanted to do with syndicates to last a couple of lifetimes. 

"Not that kind of syndicate," Faye interjected with light condescension. "A long time ago, horse ownership was limited to the very wealthy upperclass, but from late last century, groups of investors would buy into a horse to spread the cost. That group is a horse syndicate." 

"Why?" Jet asked. He'd often bet on horses but didn't bother learning what went on in the luxury boxes. He was strictly a recreational visitor to horse tracks, but even he knew that if the cost is spread out, then the payback would be too. "What kind of return would they get if the winnings are spread?" 

"They're not in it merely for the money. It is for prestige. Playing at being uppercrust," Faye answered. She took a sip of her drink and leaned back. 

For a moment, Jet studied her. She was back to wearing her worn yellow mid-jacket and barely-there hot pants with the decorative suspenders. The red shrug sweater was tied around her waist, but later, he knew that it would be back at its customary off-the-shoulder position soon enough. 

But it wasn't her choice of clothing that intrigued him. It was her knowledge of people who toyed with being monied. Like Ed, Faye had a way of seeming one way, when in fact, she was another. Faye had expensive tastes, but it was a refined taste rather than gaudy. A survivor to the core, she had no problem slumming and talking trash with the best of them, but there were times when Jet firmly believed that the real Faye came from money, old money. He knew if he asked her, she'd brush him off so he tucked his questions away. It was not the time anyway. 

Jet returned his attention to Doohan. "Is she right?" he asked. 

The lined faced scrunched almost imperceptively. "Horse syndicates and the crime syndicates are not always connected, but in this case, both are being affected. Mahoney said that the big 3-year-old season started. The syndicates want this guy caught as soon as possible. They are offering 2 million for his capture." 

"The syndicates are posting the reward?" Faye asked. 

Doohan replied shortly, "They don't want a lot of people to know; including the bounty hunters." 

"Why not?" Jet was suspicious. 

Doohan shrugged and said, "Don't know." 

But Faye knew, or at least, she had a guess. "Betting on horses is big business and like all big business, it can be crooked. This guy must've been someone who worked for them, to help fix the races." 

Doohan regarded her with a flash of respect. "Not sure. You gotta speak to Mahoney." 

"Where can we find him?" Jet asked. 

"He's on Mars but in Arcady, not Tharsis. The major horse track of Mars is there. Nueva Santa Anita. Is that close enough?" 

Jet and Faye looked at each other. For the first time in a month, they both relaxed for a fraction of a second. "Yeah," Jet answered with relief. "That is more than close enough. Thanks, Doohan." 

"No thanks needed." Doohan fell silent for a moment, but made no move to sign off. Then he said, his craggy expression softening a bit, "You get that boy back. Tell him that he was the second best to ever fly that Swordfish. Do that for me, will ya?" 

"I'll do that," Jet promised, hoping that he could make good on it. 

* * *

The city of Arcady was about three settlements north of Tharsis City and nearly as schizophrenic as its bigger, younger sibling, but without the dramatics. 

About fifteen years older than Tharsis, Arcady had never developed into its first promise of a major economic force. Once Tharsis City began construction, Arcady became a forgotten city for awhile. Then, about 20 years prior, it had suddenly became fashionable to live there after one of Tharsis City's periodic crime convulsions. Even after Tharsis settled back down, Arcady's reputation of being a conservative, yet arty town was cemented and ever since, it had a steady population to boast as home. 

It was a mixed up small city that wasn't quite urban and not quite suburban. The population was mixed enough to give it a flair that brought in weekenders to visit, but not so diverse as to create uncomfortable tensions. It was a neither-nor kind of place, but kind of perfect in its middle-hood. 

The brother of Doohan insisted on meeting at a hole-in-the-wall diner called Slim Kinky's before they went to the track. "Gotta have my lucky burrito before I get to the track. I always have 'em before a big race day," he'd told Jet the day before. 

They weren't in any position to argue with him so they agreed. "Do you think he's gonna pay?" Faye had wondered hopefully, her stomach leaping at the thought of something other than the canned beans that had been their staple for the last week. 

Her hopes were dashed within the first minutes after he ordered himself a roast pork burrito with a side order of pancakes and big cup of coffee. "Don't forget the smidge of rum, Janie-honey," he told the waitress. 

"Will this be on one check or separate checks?" Janie asked politely, hiding her patient suffering well, but not well enough for Jet to miss. 

There was a pause that lasted an awkward silence or two, then Jet answered, "Separate." 

While he and Faye ate a piece of toast each and drank coffee, Mahoney took healthy, gulping bites out of a fat burrito. "There was this writer," Mahoney was telling them around the food stuffed in his mouth. "He once said, _There has to be a woman but not much of a one. A good horse is much more important.'_" The man grinned as Faye's eyes thinned. "What do you think of that, Ms. Valentine?" 

"I'm thinkin' this writer must either be dead or not very popular," she returned facetiously. 

Mahoney laughed. "Well, girlie, he is dead but he's still popular. Max Brand, he wrote westerns. Cowboys like you should be familiar with him." 

"I'm not a cowboy." 

The man's grey eyes, the same color as his hair, wandered to the point south of her chin and murmured loudly, "Yeah, you're no boy. That's for damn sure." 

Jet growled and his gleaming hand convulsed around the edge of the bread he held. Crumbs fell in clumps to the table. "Are you sure you're Doohan's brother?" 

"He'd like to say differently, but yeah, I am." 

Jet was sure that there had to have been a mistake by the stork. Mahoney was short, pudgy, and talkative. He was also an oily snark. 

But he must've been perceptive too, because he dropped the fat burrito and laughed again. "I'm an asshole, but you gotta understand. It's the business. Being nice doesn't get you anywhere, especially for an old guy like me. Horseshit and horse sense kind of go together, if you know what I mean." 

Faye rolled her eyes, but conceded, "If you say so." 

Jet wasn't in the mood for explanations of the man's suspect characteristics. He was here for a job. "What is the deal on this bounty?" 

Mahoney took a swig of his spiked coffee and then reached down into his case. He brought out a folder and handed it over to Jet. "There's your target. Claiborne 'Red' Whittingham. He was a jockey until he couldn't make weight anymore. He didn't want to be an exercise rider either. I can understand that." 

"How did he go from jockey to saboteur?" Jet asked as he and Faye studied the picture. Red Whittingham had the appearance of a piddling loser. Thin face with a splotchy complexion; long, hooked nose, smallish eyes, and a wide, mushy mouth. 

"As you know, the races aren't always clean." 

"They aren't?" Faye sounded aggrieved. Jet gave her a curious look. He'd thought, given her comment to Doohan, that this was not news to her, yet she sounded almost like a kid who just learned that there really wasn't a Santa Claus. 

Mahoney had the nerve to laugh at her. "Lost money, huh?" He didn't sound sympathetic. "Heck, woman, not everything is fixed, just certain races for certain reasons. Usually happens in the claiming races, when a syndicate is trying to get rid of a horse." 

"Well, that makes me feel so much better," Faye snapped. "It was one thing to suspect it, but another to have it confirmed." 

"Girlie, this is one of the _nicer_ sides of racing," Mahoney started, his tone changing to serious. "Can you imagine what happens to the horses? Do you think that all those horses, when their usefulness is over, go off to a big Utopia farm where their every wish for carrots and hay are met?" Faye shook her head, taken aback by the shift in his tone. "Then let's keep our priorities, shall we?" 

Faye agreed, but not before her emerald eyes crackled with heat. "Why don't you tell us why the syndicates want this guy?" she suggested smoothly as she took out a cigarette. Before she could fish out her lighter, a small flame flickered an inch away from the end of the nicotine stick. She leaned forward cautiously as she met the suddenly stern eyes, eyes that were far more like the brother she'd met. "Thanks," she said after she'd taken a long drag. 

As she exhaled a long plume, he acknowledged her briefly and turned back to Jet. "Fixing races has good money in it. You get in there, drop a few pings here and there and then you're out. Sometimes it is a shot of some illegal substance that will get the horse disqualified, sometimes it is a shot of something to make the horse a little slow." 

"But if it is sanctioned by the...uh...establishment," Jet said uncertainly, "then what is the problem?" 

"This guy has gone freelance and that is unacceptable, especially when he's ruined some big time investments and he's beginning to draw attention to himself. That's even more unacceptable. The syndicates can't bring in the police because it would expose a side of racing that people like Ms. Valentine here really don't want to have confirmed." 

Jet rubbed his head. "When do you think he'll strike again?" 

"Today," Mahoney quipped. "Why do you think you're here?" 

Mahoney was right: _He was an asshole_. Jet felt like he was being punished for some dubiously committed wrong just by being in the guy's presence but he stamped down the feeling of karma-like persecution. "Okay, so we're here. Why don't you tell a little more before we go over there?" 

The tone was forbearing, but Mahoney detected the edge. "Enough of shooting the shit, then. Here's the deal. Red has been sabotaging some big name stakes of late. Today is a big race in the horse racing world. It isn't the Kentucky Derby but it is one of the major preps. A lot of Derby winners come out of the Santa Anita Derby so a number of the best horses are here. Every year, someone somewhere is hoping that from this batch of 3-year-olds, the reincarnation of Secretariat will appear and horse racing will see its glory days return. A lot of money has been invested in these horses and now is the time for the payoffs to begin. The syndicates don't want anything to go wrong." 

"Why do they think he's gonna strike today?" Jet was beginning to wonder if this was a wasted opportunity. 

"Because he said he would." 

* * *

They were to meet Mahoney at the gate of the backside of the track. While they waited, he noted that Faye was beginning to look a little distressed. "What's wrong?" he asked. 

She shook herself, smiled and stretched her arms sinously to the sky. "Nothing." 

It was an act and he had enough of acts today after the exercise in elongated bullshit that Mahoney had thrown at them during breakfast. "Don't lie to me, Faye. Not now." 

Folding her arms, she had the grace to look a little reflective. "I guess now is not the best time to remind you that I kinda have a problem with betting...especially when I'm near a track." 

Jet couldn't stop the quick chuckle. "You shouldn't have a problem resisting today. You ain't got any money to bet...do you?" 

"No, I don't," she admitted despondently. "I guess you are right." 

"Just remember that we're not here for pleasure. We're here on business." 

She nodded and relaxed. A smile even lifted the corners of her mouth. "All right, all right." She looked past him and saw Mahoney coming towards them. "Do you think we can trust him? He isn't anything like Doohan." 

Jet shook his head. "Not sure. It's obvious that he works for one of those syndicates he's talking about." He turned his gaze skyward and squinted as if trying to sort out a thought. "Faye, are you wondering why these guys just don't catch this Red Whittingham on their own? They have enough opportunities." 

"Right now, Jet, I don't care about those annoying inconsistencies. I just want to get this guy, get our money, make a couple of plays at the window and get out of here." 

The gate was opening and Mahoney was motioning them to come forward. In show of unusual silent communication, Jet and Faye hesitated together. Mahoney finally asked, impatient, "Are you comin' in or stayin' out?" 

Jet went first with Faye trailing behind him. As he went through the gate, he began to hear sounds, of horses and people mingling together, unusual and foreign as if it were a town unto itself. Following Mahoney further into this unique area, the smell of hay and horse droppings became stronger. 

Next to him, he heard Faye mutter in a very low voice and with a touch of her old ritual animosity: "Spike, you had so better appreciate this!" 

* * *

_A Hopeful Next: The Ghost of Belle Starr_

* * *

**Author's Note:** The "Possible" and "Hopeful" is not a teaser. I am notoriously bad at keeping a writing schedule due to a busy work schedule. I never know when I will be updating but I am hopeful it will not take so long. Also, apologies for any editing and proofing oversights. ~ Puaena 


	3. The Ghost of Belle Starr

**Disclaimer:** Same as Chapter 1 & 2. 

* * *

Tombstone Blues  
3. The Ghost of Belle Starr

* * *

The ghost of Belle Starr she hands down her wits  
To Jezebel the nun she violently knits  
A bald wig for Jack the Ripper who sits  
At the head of the chamber of commerce 

Verse 2 of _"Tombstone Blues"_  
Bob Dylan from _Highway 61 Revisited_

* * *

Contrary to the popular belief of Jet and her own wayward thinking, she had not been in love with Spike Spiegel. 

But she had been jealous of Julia, last name still unknown. 

_Did a celestial apparition like Julia even need a last name?_ Faye reflected in the privacy of her subjective thoughts. 

As she followed Jet through the backside of the Santa Anita track, she silently confessed that she had been jealous of the incorporeal dream that Spike had hoarded to himself. She was jealous, that is, until she had met the real thing and then Faye had to admit that she had liked the tough angel-demon that had haunted the object of their combined fascination. 

Besides her svelte body and long, golden hair, Faye had found nothing about Julia that had indicated a beauty that was extraordinary. In truth, Julia had been almost plain. Pale with a slightly long face, smallish eyes, a thin nose, and an almost non-existent mouth that had seemed severe, even dour. But the imperfect features gathered together to make an arresting, memorable composition that could be regarded as beauty or something akin to it. Perhaps her beauty had not mattered as she'd possessed a hidden verve and a sublime, muted style that had been evident in the way she had handled her car and it had only hinted at the steel that lurked beneath the willowy frame. 

_Yeah, she was a cool one,_ Faye admitted silently, somewhere between envy and admiration. 

Whatever it was, Julia had the elusive _IT_ in spades, however _IT_ could be defined. That two disparate men of equal passions had made the woman their idée; fixe was enough to convince Faye that there had been more to Julia than what she had revealed beneath that enigmatic half-smile. That _Spike_ had loved Julia was enough for Faye to concede that there had been more to Spike than he had ever revealed to them. 

And that had hurt...still hurt and she didn't like the reason why. 

Broodingly, reluctantly, she conceded that maybe she had been a little in love with the green bird after all. How else could she explain the pinching pain that a corner of heart felt whenever she thought of him? Or the perverse need to cry that kept her up when she tried to sleep? Or that she could stare at the shower nozzle until the water had long grown cold before she had realized that she'd even turned on the water? 

_Jerk_, she thought waspishly. _We know why you did it and you knew that we'd know, that we'd understand and I did understand. I really did. But you never thought we'd care so much. That I would care._

That was the distasteful, pissant part of it all: She had _cared_. She had not wanted to as she had never planned to care about him or anyone else but herself. People could say she was a selfish bitch and Faye was perfectly fine with the description, but no one could ever say that she was delusional nor did she ever shift blame when the blame belonged to herself. She may run away from her responsibility to the mess she'd leave behind but she always took credit for the chaos. 

But when it came to caring, she found the emotion to be an inefficient annoyance and a time-consuming hindrance. Falling in love, caring for someone, trusting others. It was all nothing but trouble as far as Faye Valentine was concerned. She'd learned that from Whitney Haggis Matsumoto. Any subsequent encounters of the sentimental kind had only solidified her belief. 

Then she'd leeched herself onto the Bebop and got walloped by bad food, bad plumbing and a bad case of boomerang karma. 

This was her punishment for her sins, real, imagined, or forthcoming. 

"Shit!" she almost shrieked. 

At her exclamation, Jet turned around with a quizzical look on his rough features. As she looked down, she felt his almost midnight blue eyes follow her line of vision until they both came upon one of her beat-up white ankle boots mired in a healthy pile of fresh horseshit. She glanced up as her mouth tightened. At the same time, Jet's eyes met hers and she glared at him, daring him to say something. 

And he did. "Watch your step," he warned, a quirk at the corner of his mouth, a small, but unmistakable dimple flashing beneath the crescent plate on one of his chiseled cheekbones. 

"A little late for the advice," she snapped, suddenly feeling distracted. 

"Better late than never." 

He was smiling, the dark eyes suffused with warmth, and Faye's sharp anger receded swiftly, leaving behind only a shimmer of its energy. It was an illuminating realization that this was the first true smile that she'd seen from Jet in a long time and it was as if seeing him smile for the first time. Belatedly, she noted that this big, beat-up man had a nice smile on what was, she was stunned to note, a perfectly shaped mouth. Generous, but not too wide, with an upper lip that was cut just a shade finer than the full lower lip that always seemed moist and supple. For all the time she'd been on that bucket, she couldn't recall ever seeing his lips chapped or frayed. For a man who grumbled about his age, there was something ageless about that pliable mouth of his. 

A shade confused, she felt an incomprehensible, sudden surge of agitation choke her throat and it caused her next statement to come out sharper than she'd intended. "What are we looking for again?" 

The knife-like tone of her words caused both Jet and Mahoney to shoot each other surprised glances. Instead of apologizing for her curtness, Faye decided to go with it. "That's right, Mahoney, what are we looking for?" She waved her right hand to indicate the hustle and bustle that surrounded them as they stood. It was still early but she had a feeling that in another two hours, the area would be controlled chaos where horses would be brought out of their stalls and groomspeople, handlers, trainers, owners, reporters and veterinarians bustled about. "Why the hell would anyone believe that they could get away with something in the middle of all this?" 

Mahoney Doohan smirked at her. "Easy. No one's paying attention to anything except themselves." 

"Then where do we start?" Jet's face was hardening and Faye knew that it had to do with frustration. This was not a world that he was comfortable with and he had no time to play around. They needed the money and that meant getting the bounty. 

"I'll take you where the horses for the Derby are being kept," Mahoney said easily as if he were taking them on a tour. 

"How many horses are expected to run?" As a general rule, Faye did her horse and dog track wagering at an off-track facility, but it had been awhile since she'd been to any track. Because of her lack of attendance, she was not aware of who the big names were this season. 

Mahoney grinned. "We've got twelve in this year's Derby and ten in the Santa Maria Distaff that runs right before the Derby." 

Jet glowered. "You mean we may been looking at 22 horses? He could hit all of them?" 

"I doubt it," Mahoney snickered. "He just wants to make a statement. He'll go after the big guns." 

At this point, Faye saw Jet's expression go from dubious to downright disgusted as he stopped in front of a stall that housed a horse named Meet A Millionaire. "I'm gonna ask this once and hope that you got a good answer because right now, I don't get this and I'm beginning to think I'm being played." The arms folded as the voice deepened. "Why the hell are we here, Mahoney? You seem to know all there is to know, so why the hell do you need us?" 

It was a question that Faye had been working hard to not ask herself, but now that the question was out there, she kind of wanted to know the answer as well even if it made her sick to her stomach. 

The short, smarmy man whose iron gray hair was the only trait that resembled his laconic older brother, Doohan, merely shrugged as his mouth twisted. "Because if you catch the guy, it isn't traceable to any particular syndicate; if you screw up, you are expendable...and untraceable to any particular syndicate. Works out well any way we look at it." 

"So you do work for a syndicate," Faye gritted out. 

The glow in the beady eyes died out. "We all do, Faye-honey. We all work for them." 

* * *

There was nothing to do for about an hour except walk around and be told to move out of the way by foreign-speaking groomsman, bit at by high strung horses, and asked for the thousandth time by security, "And what is your business here?" All the while, they looked for a small, nondescript former jockey who was allegedly slipping horses spiked carrots. 

"Maybe we shoulda kept Mahoney with us," Faye acknowledged grimly. She was beginning to think that she hated horses. They were big and beautiful from far away and they were big, beautiful and scary up close. And they smelled, a musty, sweaty animal smell that made Faye crinkle her nose and fight off the urge to pinch it with her fingers. 

They were nearing a stall that housed one of the runners in the Distaff race. "Virago," Jet said and took an innocent look. His eyes grew wide as he saw a stunning black horse begin to charge. "OOOHHHH GGGOOODDDD!" he groaned as he stumbled backwards as the fierce glare of a proud equine appeared through the window of the stall, snorting fiercely as if she were the chosen mount of an avenging dark angel. 

Faye would have laughed as Jet fell on his backside if she had not been about to get her piquant nose bitten off by the mean spirited horse. "I'd back off if I were you," a female voice came from around her back and Faye obeyed the suggestion without question. 

"She's named well, doncha think?" the woman, dressed in jeans and plain workshirt, asked rhetorically. Faye turned to the voice and saw a woman who appeared to be about Jet's age, a little shorter than Faye with almond colored hair that was fine and wispy. Her skin was a tad weathered, reminding Faye somewhat of VT, and the eyes were an ordinary brown. The smile was friendly and a bit condescending as she looked Faye over. By the raised brow, Faye could see that her attire was being mocked and Faye stiffened in a gesture that was pure defense mechanism. 

Right as she was about to say something, she heard Jet ask in a wondering voice: "Jerusha?" 

The woman moved her attention to Jet and delight lit up her plain face. "Long time no see, Jet," she greeted with a wink and grin. "I just had to wander over here when I saw you fall on your ass backing away from this very fine beauty." 

Jet blinked in confusion as he stood up. "You mean Faye?" 

"I meant the horse!" Jerusha-whoever barked out on a deep laugh. "I take it your name is Faye," she surmised with a glance as Faye nodded automatically. She wondered who the hell this Jerusha was. "I wasn't talking about the girl," she started telling Jet. "I was talking about this filly here. Although I guess the two do have the same look about them." 

"Are you saying I look like a horse?" Faye snapped, not so vaguely insulted. 

"Raven dark hair; long, beautiful legs, and a vixenish spirit. Yeah, I'd say you were a lot like this horse." Jerusha moistened her lips discreetly as she perused the female in a way that was all too intimate and left Faye in no doubt to which way this woman's tastes swung. In some absurd way, Faye felt complimented by the admiration. It had been awhile since anyone gave her a look of appreciation as she'd gotten all too used to the _you-are-such-a-pain_ look. She was also uncomfortably relieved that this Jerusha was not a former girlfriend of Jet's. She immediately justified her relief in that she knew that Jet had a way of collecting girlfriends who were barely legal and were often resembling waifs who'd lost their favorite dolls...or screwed up boyfriend...or brilliant, but troubled father. The only thing that Faye needed less than a former ex of Jet to appear was a former ex of her own. 

Not that she had many exes, although she had to admit to having a number of disgruntled, almost-lucky, would-be amours. 

"Jerusha," Jet scolded intemperately. "Stop ogling my partner. She's not your type." 

Partner? Did he say partner? Faye didn't know whether to be stunned or pissed at the fact that she'd suddenly been elevated in status or the fact that they were discussing her as if she were a doll in the window. 

"You mean, I'm not _her_ type." 

"Hell if I know that," Jet muttered and raised an eyebrow in challenge at Faye. 

Annoyed, she spat out, "Hell if I know either. Maybe I should consider myself flexible as long as the benefits are good." 

Jet grinned and said to Jerusha, "See, Jer, I told you that this girl here ain't your type." 

The woman had the nerve to chuckle and nod. "I guess not, cuz I ain't got many benefits to offer. Love is the only thing I have to offer." She winked at Faye who glared at Jet who returned the glare with an ingenuous grin. 

Then the two friends laughed and the short woman and the big man hugged like the longtime friends that they were. That was something that never failed to amaze Faye as Jet had friends everywhere. They could be in the middle of a blown out desert on meteor-ridden Earth and Jet would meet up with someone he knew from somewhere. 

"What're you doin' here, Black, especially around this ill-tempered, but lovely Virago?" Jerusha asked as she pulled away from him. "I knew you liked to play the slots and the tables at the casinos but never the horses." Surprisingly, the woman held out a hand and while the fractious filly snorted and snapped her intimidating teeth in the air, she eventually nuzzled the human hand. 

"We're here to catch a bounty. What're you doin' here?" 

"Came here to work as a vet after the war on Titan came to an ignoble end. Went from a medic patching rebels together to being a medic patching horses together," she replied dryly, then her features drew together. "The bounty yer after wouldn't happen to be Red, would he?" 

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, he would." 

The expression of her worn face grew resigned. "He's not a bad guy, you know." 

"What's the deal then?" Faye asked. 

"He was a jockey. He had an injury after being thrown from a horse and after that, he just couldn't make weight anymore. It was like his body was tellin' him something." 

"I knew that much." Jet looked at Virago who looked at him suspiciously and snorted disdainfully. "Why's he in trouble with the syndicates?" 

"He went to the other side." 

"What does that mean?" 

"Animal rights." 

"Oh, no." Faye groaned. Given a choice, she would rather chase after psychotic pyromaniacs than chase after someone with a vision that had a spiritual or moral compass. From experience, she was learning that the fight between animal rights/environmentalists and the establishment was getting testier. The love and peace of the old movement over a century ago as the lovers of nature had learned that a big bang was more effective at getting attention than a sit-in. Carrying a sign while singing an obscure folk song earned a skit and a punchline on late night television whereas desperation and threats made headlines. Faye slapped her head and closed her eyes. "Oh, god, no." 

"That's what they said when Red went out on his own," Jerusha added with a faint twist of her lips. "But he ain't wrong. Those animal rights people, they ain't completely wrong. This is a brutal sport run for the pleasure of rich people and gamblers. Look at me." She frowned. "I help keep these animals going so they can run when it is a better idea for them to rest. There's an amazing roan that will be running in the Derby today that should be held out because he's got a hairline fracture in his hind leg, but his handlers need him to run. I've got him pumped up with Bute so he can run through the pain. He may win...or he may break down somewhere between the gate and the finish. If he wins good, if he dies on the track, that's good too, because the insurance will pick it up and the corporation can write him off as a loss." 

"I'm beginning to think this is a waste of time," Jet grumbled. "I don't know what we're doing here. It all tastes like spoiled chicken to me." 

Jerusha shook her head. "No, Jet, you have to catch him. I'm no big fan of the syndicates, but Red is doing just as much damage. He's trying to make horse racing look as bad as it can and he does it by purposely juicing up the horses to the point where they'll kill themselves. Because of him, there's been four horses that have died on the track from heart attacks and hemorrhaging. He uses a mix of ingestible red-eye and mazindol. It's like a horse's speed ball. Owners sometimes use it for performance enhancement, but it is rare because it is so easy to detect in the post-race testing and you never know how the horse will react." 

"I see," Jet said. Faye was glad he did, because she sure didn't. The longer she was on this side of the tracks, the more she found herself never wanting to place another bet on a horse again. It was all pretty damn disheartening for a knee-jerk gambler like herself. "Where is a good place to look for this guy? Our contact said he'd probably try with the big guns, but I'm not sure who the big guns are." 

"Well, this filly here is one of them." 

"You think he'll be after the runners in the filly race?" Faye asked. "I know it is a big race for the girls, but the attention is in the Derby." 

Jerusha shook her head. "This filly is runnin' with the boys today. Her stablemate, Guinevere's Ghost, is running in the Distaff." 

As if on cue, a serene golden chestnut peeked her head out of the adjoining stall. Her head was finely structured with white blaze marking her muzzle and even for horse, Faye could see that she was special. "She's gorgeous," Faye said on a drawn-out breath. 

"Yeah, Gigi's pretty all right and well behaved. Smart too. She's a favorite here on the backside for her mellow temperament and she'd be the best horse in this stable if not for Virago." 

"You seem to partial to these girls," Faye observed and then winced as she waited for the comeback. 

"I am partial to girls," Jerusha said, taking full advantage of the opportunity presented, and laughed at the way Jet rolled his eyes. "Sorry. I just couldn't let it go by. Anyway, these two are special, especially this Virago here. Besides, these two are owned by private owners. A rarity in the sport these days." She rubbed the nose of Virago, who reluctantly accepted the attention. "Jet, you don't have to worry about these two. There is a real reason why I'm here right now although it is good to see you. The owners wanted me to watch them. The big names to worry about are War Cross, StarCruiser, and Sariel. They are on the other side of this row." 

"Why those horses?" 

"They're the favorites and they all belong to syndicates. War Cross belongs to the New Americas Syndicate; StarCruiser to the ApolloOne Partnership and then there's Sariel of the TitanGroup. He's the roan I was talking about. I like that horse. I like him a lot." 

"Why?" Jet inquired, curious. 

"He's named after the captain of the company I was with on Titan." 

Faye felt the air grow heavy at that moment as the vast universe suddenly grew very small. Next to her, she felt Jet go stiff and tightly ask, "This captain...his name...what was it?" 

"Capt. Vikesha Sariel," she answered wistfully. "In the field, he was called Vicious and he could be exactly that at times. He was hard and silent and aloof, but there was something about him, charismatic in a strange way, but he also seemed as if he were biding his time until death came." She shook herself. "But he was a good, even great, leader. He kept us together until we were the best unit in the rebel force. Then suddenly, he left and it was never the same again." 

"He was a killer," Faye choked out, stiffening as if she felt a ghost walk by. _So was Spike_, an inner voice whispered. _So was I,_ another voice chorused. For some reason, the music man from Callisto rose in Faye's mind and she heard an echo of his hurt yearning in Jerusha. Just as quickly, Faye's mind closed as she recalled Vicious in the Opera House, in the church as his underlings tied her up, in the stairway as he went to perch on the altar as he made plans for his kill. 

"He killed Spike," she whispered harshly and walked away as fast as she could. 

* * *

She made a big deal of straightening her thigh high stockings. It was probably a sexier move than she'd originally intended it to be as she noticed the attention her actions were garnering. As if practicing for something in the near future, Faye smiled provocatively to herself and shimmied her shoulders as she curled her body upright. It was a game and a frivolous one at that but Faye paid no mind. She felt nauseated inside and wanted to drive the feeling away. If this helped, then so be it because she was tired of feeling off-kilter. She wanted to go back to her normal, obnoxious, borderline felonious, cheating, heartless self. 

In short, she wanted to go back to being loosely in control of her screwed up life. She wanted to be the messed up Faye Valentine that she'd been before the Bebop when men had actually thought she was attractive enough to have money spent on her instead of being an invoice in waiting. Irritated and indigant, she vowed then and there that she would leave the Bebop. She would run. Yeah, she'd do what Faye Valentine always did: RUN. She was good at that. It was practically her signature move. 

"Faye." The voice was low, gruff, concerned and Faye's little peptalk died an early death. She knew that she wouldn't be running any time soon. 

"Are you okay?" he questioned. 

She closed her eyes and tried to relax. He never asked that. She never asked that. Not in a month long time and they both knew why. Neither one of them had been okay so why ask the obvious. The only thing both of them had been was lonely and they hadn't wanted to discuss loneliness. The fact that they knew they were lonely was enough to keep the questions at bay. But here he was asking the question and it seemed reasonable now, not obvious at all, as did the answer that came out of her mouth that also seemed reasonable, even superficially honest, and Faye wasn't sure how she felt about that. "I'm fine, Jet." 

She turned to him with every intention of having an artificial smile pasted on her lips, but the smile never fully formed because a quick glance through the crooked frame that his bent elbow made as his hand rested on his hip and she caught sight of a small, normal looking man moving unhurriedly among the people milling about. "Jet, I think that's him...no, don't turn around just yet." 

"Where's he going?" 

"He's going into one of the stalls. It looks like Sariel's stall." 

"Oh, crap." 

"Yeah, crap, but we'd better do something soon. He's already been given a lot of time." 

"All right, here we go." 

Moving fast for a man so large, Faye watched as he was at the stall faster than she'd thought possible. "Hey there," he said loudly. "Whatcha doin'?" 

Red Whittingham was under 5 foot and about fifteen pounds heavier than the jockeys who would be riding in the races on that day. His diminutive size was not unexpected but as Faye came closer, she noticed that he didn't look nearly as pasty and unkempt as he had in the picture that Mahoney had shown them. In the picture, he had looked lifeless as if he cared about nothing, but in front of them was man who looked vibrant, a warm color on his cheeks and a sharpness in his eyes. 

When he said nothing, Jet repeated himself, "What are you doin', Red?" 

"The name is Claiborne, or Clay," the man answered by way of introduction. 

The man didn't look scared or disconcerted. That alone should have surprised Faye, but what astonished Faye more was the way the big roan called Sariel was behaving towards Clay. He was stately, regal, but allowed the man to touch and pet him. "He likes you," Faye said, perplexed. 

"Of course he likes me. I rode him in his first three races as a two year old. Even then, I could tell he was special." He stroked the long neck of the horse with a leisurely loving hand. "So...what have they told you about me?" 

Faye and Jet looked at each other as if to say, "You go first," but they both hesitated, dumbfounded. It was weird. All of it was just too weird and when Faye thought about it, it was too damned appropriate because they were ultimately there for Spike and what would anything to do with Spike be if it weren't a little weird? 

Mahoney said the syndicates wanted Clay or Red or whatever he called himself because he was sabotaging races; Jet's friend said he was hurting horses, but it was hard to reconcile either accusation when the object of their bounty was calmly petting one of his alleged targets as if they were old friends. Haltingly, Faye asked, "You wouldn't hurt him, would you?" 

Jet threw her a questioning glance and Faye second guessed herself. That wasn't the question she was supposed to ask, was it? 

"It doesn't matter," Clay began as an answer. "Just by being bred, these horses are being hurt. Too big for such scrawny legs. Too fast for their bodies to handle. Too many to be fully appreciated. They are just foot soldiers for their owners. They do the dirty work while their owners get all the glory. Then they die...one day, more sooner than later." 

Without warning, a memory came upon Faye as the big grey horse captured her gaze as easily as another thin male with greyish blonde hair had when he had pinned her with his eyes alone. 

She remembered him when she didn't want to. Words came to her; words that _he_ had spoken in the time before Spike had come for her at the cathedral. 

_No,_ she corrected, the memory more morose in the present than the day that it had happened. Spike had only agreed to come to the cathedral. Saving her had been a fruitful side benefit for her, but it had not been his main goal. At the time, it hadn't mattered why he'd shown up. She'd just been glad that he had. Later, it would matter to her, but not then. 

When he'd said he was coming, Faye had been so confident, so sure of Spike and his abilities. He'd been the best fighter she'd seen and she had believed he would save her without breaking a sweat, but then Vicious had come closer to her, studying her, reading her, and she'd realized as she stared into the pale, emotionless eyes that he would not hurt her. If she got hurt by stray bullet, then so what? It would be inadvertent as she hadn't count enough to kill on purpose. 

The real prize had been Spike. 

"Why?" she'd asked the man as her body had shook, even her tongue had trembled. 

"Angel or demon, we are no one who do not matter, except that we bleed. Our blood is the only thing that is fair and binding in this universe because nothing else is." 

She had gone beyond fear then and into a place that she could not name, because at that precise moment, she had understood him and that had been far, far worse than any threat he could have made. It had made him far more dangerous because her agreement had implicated and ensnared her. 

"You can't hurt him," Faye told the former jockey, trying to distance herself from his words. 

"I would never want to hurt him," the small man replied, assured. "But he understands. They all understand." As he spoke, he brought a hand that had been in his pocket out. From where Faye stood, she could see that there was something in the hand. 

Without thinking, Faye jumped into the stall and charged. "Faye!" Jet yelled and jumped in as well only to regret the decision as Sariel reared and then cornered him. "Oh, fuck!" Jet murmured as the horse snorted, seethed, quiet and firm. 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_, Faye berated herself as she realized that while she'd saved the horse from what looked like a couple of innocuous treats, she'd also created a scene as people started wandering towards the stalls and other horses started making noise. "Quick move, bounty hunter," the man taunted. "And over some carrots." Small as he was, he was strong and he threw her off him in one easy push until she rolled precipitously close to the rear legs of a thousand pound beast. With Jet pinned on one side and Faye gingerly moving away from the legs that could easily kick her head in, Clay scurried out of the stall like a quick moving mouse. 

"Son of a bitch, Faye, get going!" Jet ordered in a low voice. 

Losing just a step or two, Faye scrambled out of the stall. Grabbing a groom who looked about eighteen and who seemed rather entranced by her ill-concealed breasts, she rubbed herself against him and inquired on a purr, "So where'd the small guy go? I know you saw him. I know that all of you always see him and turn a blind eye." 

The young man stuttered as she pressed her secret weapons against the brand new adult. "He...he...went...oh wow...he went to the other...to that side." 

Too vague. "Which side? By Virago?" 

"No, probably StarCruiser. He's in the row ahead of this one." 

Faye threw the boy from her and ignored the look of dumbfounded joy that was pasted on the kid's face. She had other things to worry about than feeling vaguely guilty about her cruel manipulation of a kid's runaway hormones. _He'll probably brag about it to his friends_, she ruminated offhandedly as she skidded around the corner, knocking down a stylishly dressed woman who fell into a pile of horse droppings. "How dare you!" she yelled at Faye. 

Faye would have apologize if she'd felt like it, but she didn't. She was too angry to think of that and when Faye Valentine got angry, she got focused. She'd forgotten for a moment why they were there, what they needed to do. On instinct alone, she went to the middle stall and looked in. A black-brown bay snorted at her and the only person with him was his groom. "Can I help you, Miss?" 

"Did you see Red Whittingham?" The young man blinked but said nothing. Instead, he turned his gaze to the wall in front of him and held up two fingers. "You don't know?" she asked, trying to sound indignant, but nodding to him, acknowledging his signal. 

"That's right, I don't know." And he returned to his preparation of his horse for race day. 

She looked into one stall and then moved to the another. It seemed that many people had scrambled to the scene that they had created on the other side. Vaguely, she could hear Jet and Jerusha talking to what seemed like a crowd and she had to wonder if it was a ruse on Jet's part to give her more time. It sounded like something he would do as he had always been a better ad-lib at fabricating than Spike or she had ever thought to be and it suddenly occurred to Faye that there was a lot about Jet she really did not know, that maybe she should learn. 

_Don't worry about that now,_ she instructed silently. _Stay focused, get this guy and then think about everything else... later._

Quietly, Faye moved, suddenly confident that she'd get her man. She took out her Glock more for show than anything as she was fairly certain that she was not going to need it. The whole set up stunk but she was okay with that. If she was no better than Red, then she was no worse than anyone else. She wasn't here to think about the oddities and ambiguities. What did any of them care about the horses? The track, the syndicates, the gamblers, the animal rights people. None of them really cared about the horses and Faye was honest enough to admit that neither did she. Not right then and it was easy to not care...as long as she wasn't staring into their eyes. 

What she cared about, what she needed, was to get the job done. What she needed was the bounty. 

And if there was fracture in her wits, she'd justify it later to the mother-confessor of a church she no longer frequented. 

* * *

_An Aspiring Next: In the Arcade_

* * *

**Author's Note (11/23/2002):** Found errors after posting; only minor corrections and editing contained in the above. Made a correction to Jet's eyes. One CB site has it listed as "blue" although they always seemed dark brown to me, but I think the website is probably right. ~ Puaena 


End file.
